by H. Y. Hanna
Cassie raised an eyebrow.
I flushed at her look. “I just… well, they didn’t look very… uh… professional.”
“Professional?” Cassie choked back a laugh. “Why don’t you just admit that you’re jealous?”
I scowled at her. “I’m not jealous! He’s a free agent after all. But you should have seen them—she was practically in his lap! He was supposed to be interviewing her but it looked to me a lot friendlier than a police interview.”
“Well, maybe that’s his method,” said Cassie. “He might just be softening her up or something…”
I made a rude noise.
“Okay, well, whatever…” Cassie threw up her hands. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Devlin, but you’ve got to speak to him. You’ve got important information about the case and you have to pass it on. You’re just being childish, not talking to him.”
I hated to admit it but Cassie was right. Still, I couldn’t face the thought of speaking to Devlin tonight. Besides, there was nothing that was really urgent. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning.”
Cassie sighed. “Fine.”
We continued searching but the light was fading rapidly now and it was soon hard to see anything. We were forced to abandon the search. Gently, we urged Fletcher back to his house, promising to return and search with him again tomorrow. The phone was ringing as we trooped back in and my heart leapt with hope. Perhaps it was someone who had seen the posters and was ringing with news of Muesli. But Fletcher listened without saying much and hung up after a moment. He met our looks and shook his head despondently.
“Never mind,” said Cassie. “I still believe that she’ll turn up, just when you’re least expecting it, looking completely unbothered that she’s put us to so much worry. Typical cat.” She glanced at her watch. “Yikes—I’d better go. I promised my mother I’d be there for a family dinner tonight.”
I suddenly remembered that I’d made a similar promise to my own mother. She had been very insistent that I be home for dinner and I’d given my word to be on time. I bade goodbye to Fletcher and Cassie, and raced back to Oxford, arriving just in time to find my mother laying the table.
“Gemma, darling, you’re not going to have dinner dressed like that, are you?” she said, looking at me in dismay.
I glanced down at my jeans and faded sweater. “Yeah, I was—why?”
“Oh, darling—how uncivilised! There’s still time. Why don’t you run upstairs and put on a nice dress?”
I looked at her in puzzlement. “Mother, I never change for dinner—”
“Nonsense, dear. You used to get changed for dinner every night when you were in college.”
“Yes, but that was different. I was going to Formal Hall every night and that was one of those Oxford etiquette things. But I’m not at college anymore.”
“Well, you could pretend that you are,” said my mother brightly. “Wouldn’t you like to look more… er… presentable, for a change?”
I eyed her in sudden suspicion. “Mother, why is it so important for me to look presentable tonight? Is someone coming to dinner?”
She tossed her head and said airily, “Oh, didn’t I say? I invited Lincoln Green over to join us.”
“Mother!” I said in exasperation. “I told you! I don’t want to be set up with Lincoln Green!”
“Whoever said anything about setting you up? I just thought the poor boy would enjoy some home cooking. He’s all alone in that huge house of his and he must be at loose ends in the evenings. And his mother is my oldest friend. Why, it would be rude of me not to invite him when he only lives around the corner.”
Argh. For a moment, I considered making a run for it. I could have bolted out the door and been halfway to central Oxford before my mother could stop me. But then what would I do? Wander aimlessly around the streets of the city, waiting for Lincoln Green to finish eating and leave? It seemed ridiculous to be skulking around in the night just because you didn’t want to meet a man in your own home. Besides, my mother would never forgive me and you don’t know what “passive-aggressive” really means until you’ve seen my mother in action.
I sighed. It would be easier just to grit my teeth and get it over with. It was only one night. Besides, it would make my mother happy. I felt a faint stab of guilt. I’d been a pretty disappointing daughter in so many ways recently—what would it cost me to put on a dress, sit at a table, and smile nicely for a couple of hours?
I gave another deep sigh. “Fine.”
“Wonderful!” my mother trilled. “Make sure you wear something pink, darling—it’s your best colour. And put on some make-up and jewellery. There’s not much you can do with your hair…” She eyed my pixie crop with distaste. “I can never understand why you want to chop off your hair when you’ve got such lovely thick waves to play with.”
I ruffled my short ’do. “I like my hair. It’s practical and convenient.” I didn’t add that, in my private moments, I liked to think it gave me a shot at Audrey Hepburn’s elfin charm.
My mother sniffed. “No man likes a woman with short hair, darling. It’s so unfeminine!”
“I’m not trying to impress a man,” I muttered.
“Maybe you could put a hairband in it,” my mother suggested suddenly. “One of those cute Alice-in-Wonderland styles with a bow on the side.”
“What?” I recoiled in horror. “No, no, I don’t want—”
“I know! I’ll come and help you get dressed.”
“No, Mother, no…” My protests fell on deaf ears as I found myself being hustled upstairs to my fashion doom.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The doorbell rang punctually on the dot of eight and I made my reluctant way downstairs. I nearly screamed when I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. I looked like a cross between a Laura Ashley bedspread and a vintage lampshade. I might not have been interested in Lincoln Green but I had enough pride not to want him to be repulsed by me.
Lincoln looked like an older, taller, slightly heavier version of the boy I used to know. He had the same serious expression and the same neat side parting in his brown hair. He was dressed in a navy blazer and beige designer chinos, and looked every inch the successful young doctor as he stepped over our threshold and politely handed my mother an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“Oh, how lovely!” my mother gushed. “Such a well-brought-up young man you are, Lincoln. And of course, you remember Gemma?” She stepped aside and shoved me forwards.
Lincoln offered his hand. “Yes, of course I remember. How are you, Gemma? Nice to see you again.”
“Now, now, no need to be so formal,” my mother said, giving Lincoln an arch look. “Shaking hands? This isn’t a business meeting! Doesn’t everyone kiss each other nowadays?”
“Mother!” I hissed out of the side of my mouth.
Lincoln stepped forwards and gave me a dutiful peck on the cheek. I knew my face was red. I hoped Lincoln would realise that it was a sign of angry humiliation and not romantic bashfulness. Thankfully my father came into the foyer at that moment and diverted the attention. He was delighted to discover that Lincoln was a cricket fan—cricket being one of the few things in the “real world” that’s powerful enough to take my father’s nose out of his textbooks—and he monopolised Lincoln for the next five minutes, discussing the result of the test match between England and Pakistan. By the time my mother managed to shepherd us into the dining room, I was relieved to find that the awkward atmosphere had eased a bit.
We filed dutifully towards the dining table, which was covered in a snowy white linen tablecloth and gleaming with even more crockery and wine glasses than usual. Lincoln pulled out my mother’s chair with an old-fashioned gallantry that had her beaming. She threw me a proud look, like someone showing off a well-trained puppy, and I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes. I have to admit, I took a wicked pleasure in managing the monumental task of pulling out my own chair and seating myself at the table before Lincoln ca
me around to me, leaving him looking a bit nonplussed. My mother frowned at me but I pretended not to see.
“So, Lincoln…” my mother said brightly as we started on the first course of honeydew melon wrapped in paper-thin slices of prosciutto ham. “How are you settling back in Oxford?”
“Very well,” said Lincoln. “It’s nice to be back and I’m enjoying the work.”
“Do you have many friends here still? Does it get lonely sometimes?”
“No, actually, the hospital is a pretty sociable place. There’s a good entertainment committee that organises events for the medical staff. Pub crawls and karaoke nights and that sort of thing.”
“Oh, well, if you ever need a partner for anything, I’m sure Gemma would love to oblige,” my mother said gaily. “She doesn’t go out much and she’s always free in the evenings.”
I glared at her. Okay, so it was true that I didn’t have much of a social life, but there was no need to make me sound like some kind of pariah. Besides, I stayed in by choice. Since opening the tearoom, I had found that I was too exhausted most evenings to contemplate the thought of a night on the town.
“I did wonder…” my mother continued, giving Lincoln another coy sideways glance. “…if you were coming alone tonight.”
Lincoln looked a bit confused. “Yes, I have come alone.”
“Oh… because I did say in my invite to include a friend, if you like?”
I squirmed in my seat. Lincoln looked even more confused.
My mother continued blithely, “Well, you being such a handsome young man… one expects you wouldn’t be alone. I thought you might have someone special you wanted to bring along?”
I cringed. I wondered why she didn’t just come out and say: “Lincoln, are you shagging anyone at the moment, dear? Because if not, my daughter is available.”
Lincoln—to his credit—seemed to take things in his stride. “No, it’s just me,” he said with a smile.
“Just you in that huge house? Don’t you feel a bit lonely rattling around in there by yourself?”
“I’m all right. To be honest, I’m not home most of the time. It’s long hours at the hospital and I’m often on-call.”
“Oh, well, of course it’s different if you had someone to come home to,” said my mother meaningfully and flicked her eyes towards me.
I squirmed and wished that there was a convenient hole I could dive into. Lincoln gave an awkward laugh and made a great show of cutting up his melon, portioning it into bite-sized pieces with surgical precision. Suddenly I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. For all I knew, he had been press-ganged into coming to dinner tonight by his mother as well and was dreading it as much as I was.
I looked at Lincoln with slightly more charitable eyes. He was quite good-looking, I admitted grudgingly. His nose was straight, his mouth firm, and his brown eyes humorous in an open, pleasant face. The kind of face you wanted on your doctor. Respectable, professional, trustworthy.
Lincoln looked up and made a desperate bid to change the subject. “I’m sorry to hear about the bit of unpleasantness with your tearoom, Gemma.”
How like an Englishman to make an understatement about everything. A brutal murder was reduced to “the bit of unpleasantness”. I suppose the British newspapers reported the sinking of the Titanic as “a regrettable excursion”. Still, I was grateful for the chance to get away from my mother’s heavy hints of our future nuptials and jumped at the cue he offered.
“Yes, it’s been a bit of a week,” I said with a wry smile. “It’s not every day that you have someone murdered in your tearoom.”
My mother gave a little scream. “Gemma, darling! Is this really a subject for the dinner table?”
“Oh, I’m sure Lincoln won’t mind. Being a doctor, I’m sure he’s used to all sorts of gory topics at the dinner table,” I said, giving him a grin.
“There’s certainly very little you can say that would disgust or offend me,” said Lincoln, returning my smile. “And a murder mystery is always fascinating. Have the police made any progress on the case? Are they close to finding the killer?”
I shrugged. “I wish I knew. They have a few suspects, but I don’t think they’re about to make an arrest any time soon.”
“There was a piece about the murder in the papers today,” said Lincoln. “I was reading it at the hospital this morning. The victim was an American named Brad Washington?”
I nodded.
“I’ve heard of Washington,” said Lincoln. “He’s head of a pharmaceutical company in the States. Very bright guy. Not the nicest man, from what I’ve heard, but very shrewd, especially in business. His company specialises in drugs which treat lumbar spondylosis and arthritis. There was a lot of talk about them in the medical field earlier this year—a lot of excitement about a new drug they’re developing.”
“A new drug?” I looked at him with interest.
“Well, it’s actually not completely new. It’s a drug they’ve got already, called Lassitomab, which works to treat arthritis. But they’ve discovered that it could help those suffering from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome as well,” Lincoln explained. “It seems to ease the symptoms so that sufferers are able to return to work and lead a normal life again. It’s a bit similar to another drug called Rituximab, which was used in cancer treatments and also thought to have benefits for those with CFS—but Washington’s drug promises to deliver even better results. It’s very exciting.”
“Is it on the market already?”
“Not for this particular use, no. It has been approved for arthritis use but it hasn’t gained FDA approval yet for treatment of CFS. I believe it’s going through the final stages of the process now but it will need to pass a special committee first. If approved, this drug could be one of the biggest advances in medicine in recent years and really make a difference to the quality of life of many sufferers. And of course, make Washington a fortune. Or rather… would have made him a fortune if he was still alive,” added Lincoln soberly.
Yes, I mused. Washington’s death seemed to have been very convenient—or inconvenient, depending on how you looked at it—for a number of people. Justine Washington benefited hugely from it. And Geoffrey Hughes? Did Washington’s old academic colleague benefit from his murder? I thought back to my conversation with Cassie about Hughes’s lack of motive. The Oxford don had admitted that Washington had come to see him about investing in a new venture. I was sure now that it was the development of this drug. It was just too much of a coincidence that the American should return to Oxford to see Hughes just before the launch of his revolutionary new drug. And Hughes was a professor in Pharmacology… What had really happened at their meeting on Friday afternoon? After all, you didn’t kill someone just because you didn’t want to invest in their business venture. No, there was something Hughes wasn’t telling.
I had a feeling that I was on the brink of a big discovery. Seth would be able to help me dig up more information, I thought. I wanted to run upstairs and call him. I could barely sit still through the rest of the dinner. My mother frowned at me as I fidgeted in my chair. She dragged out the meal for as long as she could, but even the delicious rhubarb crumble we had for dessert couldn’t quite make up for the strained atmosphere. My heart sank when we’d settled in the living room for the customary after-dinner tea, coffee, and chocolates, and she suggested a trip down Memory Lane via some family photo albums.
“I’m sure you and Gemma would love to see some pictures of when you were children together,” she said with a coy laugh. “You were such a handsome little boy, Lincoln—so proper and polite—and Gemma used to adore you and follow you around everywhere!”
I choked on my tea. That was an utter lie. To my great relief, Lincoln politely but firmly said that he had to leave as he had an early start at the hospital the next morning.
“Oh, what a shame! But we must do this again soon—it’s been so lovely to catch up with you, Lincoln. I hope you won’t mind if Gemma sees you out?” My mother gestur
ed to the TV screen which my father was watching. “Such a riveting programme—I simply can’t miss a moment of it!”
Since the only thing showing on the screen was a five-day cricket match between India and Bangladesh, which was only marginally more exciting than watching paint dry, her lie was embarrassingly obvious. I flushed and gritted my teeth as I turned and stalked back out to the foyer with Lincoln at my heels.
However, as I turned around to face him by the front door, I felt slightly guilty. It wasn’t his fault that my mother was behaving the way she was. If anything, he had been remarkably good-humoured about everything and had done his best to deflect her ploys. Looking up at him in the light of the front hall, I had to admit again that he was not bad looking at all. In fact, if we weren’t being hounded by my mother’s matchmaking machinations, I might have actually enjoyed spending time with him.
As if reading my thoughts, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, that could probably go down in history as the most awkward dinner of all time.”
“I’m sorry about my mother…” I said, shame-faced.
“It’s all right. I have the same at home.” He paused, then gave me a hesitant smile. “But mothers aside, I would really like to see you again, Gemma. Perhaps we could have dinner sometime? Alone,” he added hastily.
I stared up at him. This man would never make my heart race or leave me speechless and furious, like Devlin did. But perhaps that was a good thing. I’d been burned once by a wild passionate love affair. Now that I was older and wiser, maybe it was time I sought a different romantic ideal. Lincoln was a nice guy—and very pleasant company. I realised that I would actually enjoy getting to know him better.
“Thanks, I’d like that,” I said with a smile. “But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you don’t breathe a word of it to your mother and I won’t say anything to mine. Otherwise they’ll probably sit at the next table, orchestrating our every move and eavesdropping on our conversation.”
